


Euphemisms

by amusewithaview



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Grief, Mourning Process, fun with language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:44:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the grieving process starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Euphemisms

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Joss owns all. Timeline is just after Buffy's burial post-season-five.

The liquid was a pretty amber color, a warm shade meant to evoke images and remembrances of heat in all who looked at it.

Giles remained cold as he swirled it around in his glass, watching as centrifugal force tried to splash the twelve-year-old scotch out of the tumbler. With another jerky movement he slammed it back, swallowing quickly, without savoring the aged and unique taste.

"Bloody, idiotic..." His words trailed off and his free hand came up to rub wearily at his temples and the bridge of his nose. It was oblivion he sought with the half-empty bottle, there were another two full ones in the cupboard above the sink and he intended to down as much as was necessary in order to reach the state he was aiming for.

What started as a simple toast to the life of his surrogate daughter had turned into an all-out binge. His mind reeled with the images of today's funeral, technically  _tonight's_  as they'd waited to allow Angel to attend the service. Such an odd hour drew many curious glances, but to those who mattered it seemed fitting.

He sighed and breathed in the smells of various hothouse flowers perfuming his home with their sickly-sweet smell. Dawn couldn't bear to look at them, so he and Xander had split the burden, taking the gifts to their respective homes. It was a decision the ex-librarian was beginning to regret as his nose was continually assaulted.

Reaching out blindly, he caught the neck of a rather spindly glass vase and dragged it over. A small white card was visible amongst the so-called 'wildflowers.' He flipped it open and read it with an increasingly disgusted expression.

  
_We are sorry for your loss._   


He didn't read the signature, tossing the card aside with disdain.

 _Loss? I suppose we did 'lose' her. Ridiculous phrase, really, as if she might be found by a fastidious policeman somewhere and returned to us._  He pictured a flyer, much like the ones used for lost pets. Idly, he wondered how the vampiric community would react to a 'Lost Slayer' sign.

Curious now, he reached for another bundle of fauna, this one a minimalist concoction of lilies and babies breath. Another white card, another trite saying - did they even read the note before haphazardly attaching it to their gift?

 _  
Condolences   
_

As if any of those who had sent these foolish trinkets really understood what had been taken from them a few nights ago. Buffy's spirit, her very essence was too great for condolences. She deserved public mourning, a black parade of sobbing, ash-covered foreheads and sackcloth, at least a few flags at half-mast! Her death was a tragedy of monumental proportions, yet it would go unremarked in the annals of history - aside from a brief mention of the 'Slayer Who Quit' in the Council's dry notes.

The bottle was empty now, and he staggered carefully to his feet to make his way to the kitchen. A little of the scotch splashed to sprinkle the counter, his hand was unsteady but it got the job done. Haltingly, he made it back to his chair: bottle in one hand, glass in the other.

His vision was getting a bit blurry at the edges, everything seemed to shine. His musings turned to other death-doublespeak.  _Pushing up daisies, hah, I have yet to see so much as a_ poppy _on a grave. It's all roses and lilies and..._  Words failed him and he gestured broadly to indicate 'that one pointy, pretty, red flower.'

Giggling a little, he moved on to 'kicked the bucket.' He smiled a little at the thought of Buffy walking about heaven, kicking assorted silver pails and wooden containers aside with a never-ending parade of designer shoes.

'Biting the dust' forced a long, uproarious, and not entirely sane torrent of laughter from him. Buffy, the dear, golden girl, had often complained at how  _dirty_  she got after a night of patrolling. She had often told him the vampires were as inconvenient in death - or was that  _un_ death - as they were in life.

He was brought down from his drunken joy straight back to earth and lower, into the depressed and somber stage of inebriation.  _Worm-food_ , he thought morosely,  _That's what comes of being a Champion and saving the world. In the end you're just as mortal as the rest, just as fallible, just as gone._

 _Gone..._  it seemed to echo through the room.

 _Gone..._  he felt it spread like a contagion, sinking into his very marrow.

"Gone..." he sobbed quietly into his hand, at last letting loose the tears that had been building since his first sight of his Slayer, the beautiful daughter of his heart, lying broken and twisted on the ground.

The earth didn't stand still, no-one marked the date, but those who knew would forever divide their lives between the Before and the After.

She was gone.


End file.
